


Of the King and Consort’s Quarters

by undomiel (small_flower)



Series: The Bagginshield Interludes [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Domestic Fluff, Erebor, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One-Shot, Sharing a Room, Vignette, bagginshield, edit: rated t for there's no actual smut sorry guys, still learning the tag system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_flower/pseuds/undomiel
Summary: The way Erebor was built, it was intended that there would be two equal, but separate chambers for the King and Royal Consort.Thorin never understood that, and apparently neither did Bilbo.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: The Bagginshield Interludes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772284
Comments: 27
Kudos: 382





	Of the King and Consort’s Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> The rumours are true. I have caught the Bagginshield Bug. Henceforth I offer my first ever one-shot of this lovely couple.
> 
> Before we start, I’d like to thank Blake and objectlesson for their wonderful fics on this ship! I may have my ideas, but they really helped me to find the soul of Bagginshield with their own stories. If you haven’t already, do check out their works!

Several things happened all at once when Bilbo married Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. 

One, he was Consort now, and that meant that he was formally introduced to the Consort’s quarters, located next to the King’s. Dwalin, who showed him the way, had to pretend to deliver the directions as he would to a dwarf who had never even seen the royal quarters with their own two eyes. And Bilbo had to pretend to be a foreigner in these parts of Erebor, to feign surprise at the sight and size of the King’s bedchambers, as if he hadn’t spent many a day there, and within, doing all sorts of unspeakable things with the King himself. 

The Consort’s quarters were larger than his regular quarters, which were few levels below that of the royal bedchambers. (Although of late, his own bedroom had become more of a storage room for his trinkets rather than a room that he actually _slept_ in). The Consort’s quarters stood proudly, with the same magnificence of ornate carvings down the walls. The interiors were about the same size as the King’s quarters, if not a little smaller, and in a similar fashion they were equipped with a bathroom and a study. To his surprise there was no adjacent door connecting the two rooms, and when Bilbo noticed this design, Dwalin was happy to explain it.

The way Erebor was built, it was intended that there would be two equal, but separate chambers for the King and Royal Consort. It so happened that along the history of the dwarves, some marriages were not decided on love, but rather, trade and diplomacy. Some kings married too soon and too quickly, and the love died out like a candle in the winter winds. And some kings turned out to be greedy both in the court and out of it, unfaithful to the partner they had taken on, choosing instead to entertain a lover in the depths of the night. Between broken relationships and hidden lovers, the rooms remained separate, private, and sound-sealed. So it was the case. 

Before Bilbo could settle into his new role, however, and his quarters along with it, he took it upon himself to return to the Shire first, and gather any of his remaining belongings he would want taken with him to Erebor. When he’d told Thorin of the plan initially, a few weeks before their wedding, he scowled and grumbled at the plan, not with the disapproval of a king, but rather the indignance of a young child who had had his sweets taken away. Then Bilbo had to croon and comfort him, and assure him that the journey would take a few months at most, that it would be spring leading into summer when he left, and he’d make it back in time for the second Durin’s Day under the mountain. 

“And, the night before I go…” Bilbo’s face was flushed to the tip of his ears when he said it. “I’ll… let you have your way with me. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I…” Thorin’s jaw had almost dropped as he processed the meaning behind his words. Bilbo only blushed harder. “Yes, yes, don’t make me say it again, I’m embarrassed enough as it is.” 

And so Thorin took him up on his offer, and he was relentless with Bilbo, not to hurt either of them, but in a way that was filled with longing, and missing, and wishing that he wouldn’t go, and cherishing every last bit of Bilbo as he could. He took in his scent, took in his shape, his warmth, and swore to hold onto them until the hobbit returned from the Shire to him. To Erebor. To home.

At least the rest of the dwarves who were to accompany Bilbo were polite enough to pretend not to notice, nor point out, why Bilbo was waddling awkwardly when he came to meet the rest of them the morning after. Nor did they question why he was wincing whenever his pony shifted underneath him. So off he went, away from Erebor, just as he had begun to fall in love with it.

It was early summer when he made it back to Bag End, and it was surprisingly well-kept despite having left it for two years now. Soon enough, he learned that his cousins Primula and Drogo had had their hands full with keeping it the way it was, and warding off all greedy enquiries of the acquisition of such a place. 

“Especially from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!” Primula had said, spitting on every syllable as she sat opposite Bilbo, peeling an apple, looking heavily pregnant under the glow of fire-light. 

Bilbo, out of gratitude, really couldn’t take it upon himself to ask his cousins to leave Bag End, not with the child on the way, so he took about a week to gather his stuff, load it on the ponies, and acted as more of a guest than a host in his own house. He helped Drogo and Primula wait on the dwarves that came with him, and helped tidy up at dinner and make the beds, but other than that he felt deep in his heart that he no longer belonged at Bag End. That did bring him comfort, because a small part of him had worried that he would love the Shire too much to leave it ever again, and settle back into the slow life of hobbits, with his marriage and his adventures nothing more than a fever dream. 

So he left Bag End to Primula and Drogo, and he took less with him than he thought he would, knowing that it would find more use with a loving hobbit family than in the palace in Erebor. In return for what he did take, though it was rightfully his, he paid his cousins in full, to see his would-be nephew or niece through a comfortable and happy life. He gathered his last bits of recipes from shelves, took up some writing materials, and after a good night’s sleep he was prepared to return to where he truly belonged.

Wherever Thorin was, really. 

A heavy summer’s rain fell upon the small travelling company the night they reached the gates of Erebor, and Bilbo was shivering from the drenched clothes against his skin, for he’d chosen to wear a simple thin tunic in the heat of the morning. It didn’t help that the mountains were snow-dusted and chilly even in the summer, and without a natural dwarven insulation he was nothing but miserable, the most of all the others who travelled with him.

They hurried their ponies inside the gates and a handful of attendants rushed to greet them, with linens to soak up the rain and some furs to warm up in. Bilbo was too cold to even get off his pony properly, and as he slid down the side he almost lost his balance and fell. The other dwarves noticed and quickly worked to dry him off as best they could. It wasn’t until he was wrapped in a thick coat, his teeth chattering, that he realised that the frantic noise around him had died down. And then, he looked up to find the dwarven king staring down at him, worried but mirthful, with a hand around his waist to steady him. 

“Hello.” Despite himself Bilbo mustered the strength to bump against Thorin’s chin with the top of his head. “You’re warm,” he noted cheerfully, leaning into his chest. 

“And you’re _very_ cold,” Thorin replied, pulling him closer. “Let’s get you warmed up in our quarters.”

And Bilbo was too delirious from the cold, and happy from the reunion to even marvel at the fact that Thorin called it _their_ quarters, that the king’s suite was equal parts his and Bilbo’s as well. In his heart a giddy feeling rose up, joyfully reminded that he was married, _married_ to the king, but more importantly, to the one he loved with all his heart.

“M’lord, what should I do with your bags?” One of the dwarves called as Thorin began to lead Bilbo away. There was a moment of silence, and Bilbo looked at Thorin only to see him looking back at himself, tilting his head expectantly. _Oh. He_ was the lord the dwarf was addressing. Right. He was actually a _lord_ of Erebor now. 

_That_ would take much getting used to. 

“Well… oh… erm… set them in my quarters, please,” he mumbled. The rest of the unpacking could wait until morning, and this he announced rather loudly, as a cue for the rest of them to leave him and Thorin alone. After all, it had been months since they last met with each other.

Thorin does a wonderful job of warming Bilbo up, and when they’re finally finished with each other and ready to sleep it was almost morning, and there Bilbo lay, wonderfully cozy and satiated, curled up in Thorin’s arms, feeling as though he’d finally found home at last. 

-

“And that should be the last of your bags, sir!” The dwarf movers were a little out of breath by the time they carried all of Bilbo’s trunks all the way to the higher levels of Erebor. “Is everything in the correct way you want it?” 

Bilbo took a look around the room -- the Consort’s Quarters. It was quite nice, quite roomy. Large enough that Bilbo would feel quite at ease, but not so large that he would get lost within it. But still, there was something missing. 

“I-if you will excuse me for a moment,” he mumbled, rushing over to the King’s Quarters. He cracked open the door, and through the crevice he could see Thorin working in his study, bathed in candlelight. He could smell the scent of fresh parchment and Thorin’s wonderful musk, and immediately his own quarters felt barren, empty, more like a storage room than a place for one to _live_ and _sleep_ in. 

“Actually, if you lads wouldn’t mind…” Bilbo’s toes dug into the floor, feeling rather apologetic. “If you could move about half of this stuff to the king’s quarters. Ahem. Just the ones at the top. I’ll unpack the rest.” 

To his relief, Thorin was pleasantly surprised and not annoyed that Bilbo had chosen to make a home of his quarters rather than his own. “I was a little worried you’d want to sleep in your own room,” he admitted as he handed Bilbo shirt after shirt, which he hung up in the empty half of Thorin’s closet. “I missed having you in my bed.” 

“Yes, yes, you’ve made that quite clear,” Bilbo said, though he wasn’t complaining, no, not at the way Thorin had moved to embrace him from behind, not the way he dug his face in Bilbo’s shoulder, his beard scratchy through the fabric of Bilbo’s tunic. Not at the way he was holding onto Bilbo so tightly, as though he was scared to let him go. 

“Ahem. Thorin. Shirt, please,” Bilbo said, feigning indignance, because there was nothing more he wanted than for Thorin to stay there, to keep holding him, to breathe in his scent and _treasure_ him. And when the dwarven king refused to obey him, and instead moved to nibble at his earlobe, Bilbo only giggled at the sensation, feeling younger than he’d ever felt in years.

-

“And _I_ don’t know what you’re making all this fuss about,” Bilbo huffed, feeling rather exasperated. “I simply _suggested_ that the trade routes could cut through Mirkwood in the winter!” 

“As if I haven’t considered and suggested that for _countless times_!” Thorin’s fist hit the table, sending a shudder down the wooden furniture. Bilbo only felt his face grow hotter at Thorin’s outburst. He wanted the advice, didn’t he? If he didn’t like it, he should have shut his pretty mouth and done it his way. 

“Now don’t you get cross with me, Thorin Oakenshield.” Bilbo’s voice came in a warning, his arms crossed in the stern way that he only reserved for matters of the court. “It is _not_ my fault that you dwarves are so _fickle_ about your trade routes and whatever you’re concerned with, and it is certainly _not_ my fault that you had a bad day at work and decided to take it out on me!” 

“A _bad day_ at work?” Thorin laughed incredulously, throwing his arms in the air. “Have _you_ ever considered that it could be the fact that you’re being unreasonable?” 

Bilbo reeled back, looking positively offended. “Me! Unreasonable! The very notion of it! Well, if _I’m_ being unreasonable, as you say, then perhaps I should head to bed right now.” 

“Fine!” Thorin crossed his arms and cast his gaze to the ground. But through his glare he watched Bilbo with a sinking feeling at his heart. Would the hobbit make for the door? Would he stay? In his mind the histories of loveless royalty began to resurface, taunting him, and for a brief moment it felt like those kings of old were a portrait of himself.

When Bilbo huffily stomped to his side of the bed and tucked himself in, Thorin released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. 

But then the anger took over him again, rising in his chest, and he went over to _his_ side of the bed as well, making sure to stomp his way there, and with a grunt he slid under the covers with his back to Bilbo, as Bilbo’s was to Thorin’s. But after a while of simmering in his anger sleep still evaded the dwarf, and he knew that Bilbo wasn’t sleeping either: he was breathing too loud to be asleep. Gingerly Thorin shifted over an inch, such that their spines ever so gently rested against one another. He waited with bated breath for the hobbit to move away, but he didn’t. Instead, Bilbo shuffled a little closer, pressing their backs together, and as the warmth of the hobbit flooded into Thorin’s skin he found himself slipping easily into unconsciousness. 

In the middle of the night Bilbo found himself snuggled up against Thorin’s arm, and Thorin had his other arm wrapped firmly around Bilbo’s waist, and all the while their legs were loosely tethered. In the haze of consciousness Bilbo shifted to fully rest his head on his arm, and Thorin pulled him closer with a satisfied grunt. Then, as thought began to form in Bilbo’s mind he remembered the fight they had, and it seemed Thorin did too, for when they both fully met each other’s eyes they scrambled to untangle themselves from the embrace. 

“Erm… ahem. I’m supposed to be cross with you, aren’t I,” Bilbo said. Thorin cleared his throat, looking quite abashed himself. 

“Thorin --”

“Bilbo --”

“Oh, erm. You first.” 

“You were right. I had a bad day at work, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have. Not when you have been nothing but sweet. I’m sorry.” 

“And I should have known to be kind to you when you needed it the most. I’m sorry too,” Bilbo reached over to cup Thorin’s cheek. 

“I was worried,” Thorin mumbled, “that you would return to your own quarters. That you would think I’m too much.” 

“Really! Well, to tell you the truth, really, not sleeping in your arms was one of the hardest things I had to do,” Bilbo admitted. With that Thorin gave a hearty laugh, pulling him close to his chest. “It seems you sought to remedy that with utmost haste. Why else would I have a hobbit clinging onto my arm in the middle of the night?”

“I did _nothing_ of the sort!” Bilbo protested, mortified. “It must have been you then, creeping over to my side and… and… _holding_ me like that!” But they both knew that neither were angry for the fact of the matter.

In fact, it was quite nice, knowing that even when they had their tiffs and quarrels, they’d find their way back to each other eventually. Even if their bodies took the lead. 

“Can’t get your hands off me, eh, Master Burglar?” Thorin was teasing him now, tenderly tucking a strand of hair behind his ears as he did. 

“ _I_ can’t get your -- erm, _my_ hands off you?” Bilbo sputtered, feigning incredule. “Perhaps you can try telling that to the hand that’s groping my arse even as we speak.”

“But it feels so good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Bilbo murmured coyly. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading back to sleep. Good night.” With that Bilbo dug his head into Thorin’s chest and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Really now, Bilbo? Right on top of --”

“Oh, stop it, Thorin, we both know that you like it this way.” And Thorin goes quiet and smiles, because Bilbo is right. So he holds Bilbo and buries his nose in his hair, breathing him in, because apparently this was the only way the King Under the Mountain could enjoy a good night’s sleep. 

-

Eventually Bilbo _does_ find a use for his Consort’s Quarters -- it becomes his little thinking-spot, a place where he hides away from the troubles of the world around him, and burrows into troubles of his own. In lieu of crystal-lamps, the standard form of illumination in dwarven halls, Bilbo uses candles. There are potted plants placed all over the room, rich and lush under the care of his hands. 

It is where he does his writing and smoking, often both at the same time. Some days he scribbles into a giant red book, recounting past tales, and other times he pens his poems on scraps of parchment, which are tucked away into his shirt-pocket, or his drawer. 

Once in a while he welcomes visitors, but not the ones who are the most curious to see inside the Consort’s Quarters. Instead, Bilbo opens his doors to those who are in need of a refuge, a safe space of their own. He makes them take off their boots at the door and leave their weapons outside -- “nothing of that sort in here, if you please!” -- but other than that he leaves them to their own devices. 

One of his first guests was Gimli Gloin’s son, not long after the poor lad’s mother had passed away. He was a quiet fellow who spent his first visit browsing through Bilbo’s private library, devouring book after book. At some point he sheepishly asked the hobbit if he would be so kind to teach him how to read Sindarin. 

“Just to know how to insult them,” Gimli had stammered, his face growing as red as his beard. “In… in case I ever meet one of them pointy-ears.” So Bilbo taught him the songs of healing and the songs of peace, but never the ballads of war and hatred, feeling that there was too much of the latter in the world, and not enough of the former. How Gimli would wield these songs in his future, Bilbo did not know, but he hoped that it would be a light in the dark for the dwarf. 

Balin spent time there too, pouring over maps he’d rescued from the dusty archives. They were largely faded and written in ancient runes, so once in a while Balin would take with him a giant tome and patiently translate every last word, until the candles were almost spent, while Bilbo looked on with interest. 

“These maps, they are of Khazad-dum, Master Burglar,” Balin had explained once. “Have you ever heard of the Mines of Moria?”

Bilbo hadn’t, so he pulled out a pipe for himself and one for Balin, topped with Longbottom Leaf that Primula and Drogo had delivered from Hobbiton. There, in the haze of smoke and firelight he listened to the history of Moria, and for a fleeting moment he felt once again lost in the history of fallen kingdoms awaiting reclamation, and his toes tingled with the thrill of adventure. But then his eye caught the portrait of him and Thorin hanging above the fireplace, and then the Baggins side of him knew that he was satisfied with where he was, and more importantly, where his heart lay.

So he listened to Balin’s tale, and wished him well for the expedition he was to lead. He then held his hand over his heart, as if cradling the very soul of Erebor to himself. Bilbo Baggins had found a place where he could call home, and he treasured it all the more, for knowing that some were unsatisfied still with their place in the world. 

Often Thorin would have meetings that stretched late into the night, and Bilbo, being done with his duties for the day, would curl up in the Consort’s Quarters with his doors cracked open. And as soon as he heard the echoes of Thorin’s footsteps, heavy from a long day of work, he would slip out and back into their room, where he prepared to give his husband a most royal welcome.

He tries not to fall asleep, and most of the time he doesn’t. But Bilbo also has his hard days at work, where he’s completely drained from arguing over senseless dwarf-lords, who were taller and louder than he was. There was once when he had started nodding off as soon as he climbed into his rocking chair, and his book was barely opened before it toppled to the floor from his limp grasp. 

He was only roused by a soft knock at the door accompanied with a voice. “Bilbo? May I come in?”

“Yes, yes, boots off, please… hm?” Bilbo blinked as he slowly returned to wakefulness. “Thorin?” He rubbed his eyes, watching as the dwarven king crossed the room, his socks soft against the furnished pine, and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s tousled hair. 

“Oh dear. I fell asleep, didn’t I,” he said, looking up at his husband, feeling rather silly for doing so. Thorin shook his head, slipping his hand into Bilbo’s. “No, amrâlimê. I worked too late, and you were left waiting for me.”

“Bilbo, I’m sorry --”

“No, no, don’t apologise,” Bilbo waved his free hand. “It’s your work, and I’m happy to see it done well.” 

“I’m happier to see _you_ ,” Thorin countered with a smile. “And this little room. You’ve made great work on it while I was otherwise occupied, it seems.” 

“Oh well, it’s just my little corner…”

“They call it the Shire in Erebor, I’ve heard. And I can say, upon seeing it for the first time, that I quite agree with its title.” 

“You’ve never -- oh!” Bilbo’s eyes lit up with realization. Thorin had never set food in the Consort’s Quarters, not after the hobbit had refurbished it, at least. “I’m terribly sorry, darling, I’ve been meaning to show you, I just… Why didn’t you ask?” 

“Well, it’s your little haven, dear, I would never wish to intrude.” 

“Intrude! Oh, Thorin, you silly goat!” Bilbo sprang from his seat and kissed the dwarf on his cheek. “You would never intrude. Never.”

“I thought --”

“You think way too much,” Bilbo tutted. “Now I’d love to show you around, but there really isn’t much to show off, I’m afraid. Just a bit of my furniture, some of my plants over here. What else? Oh yes! I’ve hung up our portraits right up over the fireplace, just like my mother and father used to.” 

It was true that the portraits hung in the wall much in the likeness of the portraits of the Baggins in Bag End, and at the sight Thorin felt a tug in his heart, a tug of homeliness and a simple love in its full display. The portraits hung proudly like they were in a hobbit-hole, marking the room to bear the welcome of not only Bilbo Baggins, but also his husband Thorin Oakenshield. 

“I know it’s quite late, but would you like to sit in front of the fireplace for a bit? Until the fire goes out?” 

“Oh, Bilbo. How could I refuse?” 

As the fire blazed on they shared poems and love-words in each other’s arms, and soon the day melted away into the air, even as the fire was reduced to embers. Before them the portraits were but a mirror of the dwarven king and his consort: etched in love and mirth, making a second home within home, and joined in heart, from Erebor to the Shire, and back again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you look closely, you can pinpoint the exact moment my soul fled my body while writing this.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Drop a note if you liked it, hated it, or have anything else to say :) Hope this brought you a bit of joy during quarantine ^_^
> 
> [my tumblr](https://small-flower.tumblr.com/) | [support me on ko-fi!](https://ko-fi.com/undomiel)


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